


Meet The Family

by Desmondasaurs



Series: The House on the Corner [4]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen, M/M, Neighborhood dynamics, Old Married Couple, Slice of Life, Ziggy The Dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-02-07 11:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21457033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desmondasaurs/pseuds/Desmondasaurs
Summary: "Look at that face! You can't say 'no' to that face! It's criminal!"All Hutch could see when he looked at the photo of the dog on Starsky's phone was big brown eyes and his partner's propensity to play Hero to everything and anything he could."Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
Relationships: Ken Hutchinson/David Starsky
Series: The House on the Corner [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1044383
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	Meet The Family

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(June 2014- June 2016)

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Kiko was a good cop. He’d preferred a desk job to running up and down streets like Starsky and Hutch had, said growing up through the eighties and nineties and managing to stay out of any gang related violence was hard enough. He was fine with having a more restricted jurisdiction. His wife was a lawyer, took a lot of pro-bono cases and liked to focus on the humanities.

That, really, was how Kiko got involved with Project Race Track. Breaking up illegal dog races and breeding in the hills. Animal abuse hit him right in the heart, ranked in his opinion right up there with child abuse, as one of the worst things a person can do.

And, as a ‘little brother’ to Hutch, Kiko sometimes came over with the kids, or on his own for a beer and some conversation. It was nice to be able to talk shop with someone who knew what it was like. Nice to be able to feel like they were still in the loop when Kiko talked about work and the rumor mill down at headquarters.

Sometimes he liked to bring files in from Project Race Track, rescued animals looking for a good home, or a group looking for volunteers to help rehabilitate some of the seized animals.

Starsky liked to go down to the shelter a couple times a week and play with the dogs, or help out at food drives and donation events because his face and name still held a little status in Bay City. The rumors and news clippings still young enough that people Kiko’s age remembered it happening in vivid detail.

_“Homicide Detective Gunned Down Outside Precinct”_ in big bold letters across the front page. _“Gunther Found Guilty on All Counts!”_

Carlos, the man who ran Project Race Track, had been a teenager during the Gunther case, got all stary eyed and giggly when Starsky or Hutch came down to the shelter to volunteer, or lend their faces to public events.

Kiko thought it was hilarious. Brought Starsky down as often as he could without suspicion.

“Think he’s got a crush on you,” Hutch said one evening over beer with Starsky and Kiko. “Why else would he go all giddy every time you step through the door.”

“He’s half my age,” Starsky was lounging on the sofa with his feet tucked into Hutch’s lap. “Not to mention I’m taken!” He made an absurd kissy face at Hutch.

That weekend Hutch was at home with a ‘back ache’ and the laptop Starsky’d got him for Christmas, though he would never admit to knowing only how to turn it on and find the word processor program. Starsky found him that evening reclined in bed with his feet up typing with a thesaurus at his hip.

Hutch only glanced up at him for a second; “What’s with the face?”

Starsky said nothing, kicked off his sneakers and skinned out of his jeans. Left them lying there on the floor in a fit of pique, and sprawled himself on his face on the other side of the bed.

“Long day at the office?” Hutch picked a bit of straw from his hair and wrinkled his nose in disgust as he pitched it toward the waste basket.

“Raid,” Starsky said into the pillow. “Remind me not to do that again… It’s heartbreaking.”

“You’ve seen worse—”

“Not in twenty years… Wore down my resistance. I had callouses before… Now I’m a tenderfoot.”

“Carlos was watching Gunsmoke again, wasn’t he.”

Starsky turned his face out of the pillow, glasses askew and fumbled with his phone. After a moment of scrolling, he shoved it into Hutch’s face.

“What’s that?” Hutch took the phone and held it away from his face, peered down at the sad little blur on the screen.

There was a dog, all long thin limbs and protruding skeleton with open sores and injuries. He was white and reddish tan with an almost perfectly circular red blaze of fur on his head.

“Poor thing,” He handed the phone back.

“He’s gonna need a foster, once he’s healed up.

“Yeah… What’s another word for ‘slap’.”

Starsky was still staring at the picture. “What context?”

“The sound… Like the sound a slap makes.”

“Still need context… like is this an aggression or a passion?”

Hutch peered down at him with an expression of dazed uncertainty.

“The sound of a hand hitting a face, or an ass?”

“Oh! Oh—uh… Woman slaps a man in anger.”

“That’d be a sharp sound… ‘whip crack’ or water hitting a hot pan.”

Hutch clicked some keys.

“Hand hitting an ass is a different kind of sharp sound… You got meat to it. Like—”

Hutch bowed his head with a giggle; “Okay, okay. I get it.”

“This poor dog, Hutch… All he did was cry and flinch any time we touched him.”

Hutch looked down at him. “Well, it’s a good thing you helped rescue him. He’ll find a nice foster home, and someone who will be kind to him with adopt him.”

Starsky mumbled something unintelligible, mouth half pressed to the pillow.

“What was that?” Hutch tugged his hair.

He lifted his head and spoke more softly than he intended; “I said! I feel responsible for him.”

“What? Why!”

“He hid behind my legs… I was the only one who could touch him.”

“See? There was a reason you wanted to go today! Fate, or kismet or whatever you wanna call it—” He turned back to his laptop.

“I think we should do it.”

“I’m not in the mood, my back hurts and my hip—”

“No—Not that. I-I mean I think we should foster him.”

“No.”

“Come on!”

“No! We don’t need some dog whose temperament we don’t even know! He could attack us in our sleep!”

“You’re not being fair!”

“You’re not thinking clearly! He could be dangerous!”

“Dangerous my foot! He hid behind my legs when Geraldine Hammons—Little five-foot-two, sweet as molasses, eighteen-year-old Geraldine Hammons—Offered him a piece of jerky!”

“Starsky, we don’t even know how to foster a dog!”

“Carlos gave me a book on it… Look at him, Hutch! Look at that face!”

Hutch groaned and leaned his head back against the headboard.

“Look at that face! You can't say 'no' to that face! It's criminal!"

All Hutch could see when he looked at the photo of the dog on Starsky's phone was big brown eyes and his partner's propensity to play Hero to everything and anything he could.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

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Starsky brought the dog home on a Tuesday some six weeks later, after the litigation against his former owner went through and the man was jailed.

Ziggy was the nervous type of soul you’d expect from a chihuahua, not a greyhound mix. He was dappled all down his back and sides, with a white face and that big round disc on his brow. He constantly had his tail between his legs. The vet said he was three years old, stunted in size for his age with slightly bowed legs and teeth worn down from chewing at the bars of his cage.

Hutch hadn’t been exactly pleased when Starsky brought the dog home with the excuse of ‘fostering’ him to aid in his rehabilitation. Ziggy was flighty, hid under the sofa and peed when he was startled or someone moved too fast. The vet had suggested diapering the dog. Strapping a pamper around him to help prevent mess, but Ziggy didn’t much like that. So, Hutch had researched a biodegradable enzyme cleaner that got rid of pet smells, and bought a new mop.

Then one morning about two weeks into their maiden endeavors into ‘fostering’, Hutch had woken up early and was sitting in the kitchen having a cup of coffee and toast when he heard the dog’s toenails clicking against the tile. He turned and looked at the animal where he stood in the doorway, big soulful eyes peering around nervously.

Hutch pretended to ignore him, continued scanning his newspaper.

Click-click-click-click.

Hutch glanced from the corner of his eye, saw the dog had crept closer, body curled in on himself, head lifted, nose twitching, following the bend of Hutch’s left leg through his sweats. No doubt catching Starsky’s scent all along that side.

Starsky who clung like a limpet when there was even the slightest chill in the air, because he believed Hutch to be the human radiator. And God forbid Hutch suggest his partner use that nice electric blanket Rosie Dobie had sent for him while he’d been so sick two years ago. No. Starsky didn’t want ‘fake heat’. He wanted to squash himself all up against Hutch and fit the angular, bony portions of his arms, knees, chin and hips against the easily bruised parts of Hutch’s slightly more plush body.

Hutch sighed and watched the dog, felt something warm bloom in his chest when Ziggy let out a sigh and seemed to uncoil a little. Then miraculously, rested his head on Hutch’s thigh and looked up at him.

Hutch moved slowly, lowered the last corner of his toast down and held it still so Ziggy could sniff it, grinned when he snatched it away with a curl of his lip and gentle twitch of his tail.

For a week this continued. Every morning Hutch went down early, waited, and Ziggy came to him. Comforted by Starsky’s scent lingering from their bed, and they shared a piece of toast or two.

The ninth day Hutch pushed, gave the dog a whole piece of toast and quiet praise when Ziggy didn’t flinch or whimper as Hutch gently patted his neck and scratched under the yellow ‘Adopt Me’ collar the shelter had put on him.

Slowly, day by day, Ziggy came out of his shell. Three months later he seemed to be a different dog, rolled around on the rug happily, chased a laser pointer, played tug-of-war and growled playfully with his tail wagging. He slept sprawled out on the sofa with Starsky, or under the coffee table on a blanket, and sat with his head on Hutch’s knee under the table waiting for bites of people-food. He’d even started romping in their back yard with Starsky. Rolling around in the grass and chewing up a tennis ball, or a frisbee. Maybe one of Starsky’s old shoes he left by the back door. Running laps like a mad thing when he would get excited.

When a year rolled around Hutch was no longer willing to accept that Ziggy was a ‘foster pet’. He had become part of their little family. Even tolerated the stray cat that Starsky swore he wasn’t feeding, but Hutch knew he was. So, it wasn’t really any surprise when Ziggy got his own collar. A blue leather strap with a silver srar shaped tag stating his name, address and phone number in case he was lost.

For Christmas he got a memory foam dog bed he never slept on, and a fleece jacket that made him look like a dinosaur. Plush boots and a soft towel he proceeded to maul with great enthusiasm.

Starsky thought it was the greatest thing since the invention of the home video, and rolled around on the floor cooing and playing with the dog until Killer got jealous and left muddy prints all over the hood of Starsy’s car.

By May, Ziggy had begun playing with their new neighbor’s daughter Kelly. Jumping and snapping at bubbles, or pouncing the little girl’s jump rope when she would pull it along behind herself. Licking the girl’s face when she shared her dress-up clothes, turning Ziggy into a Princess, or a dragon, or any number of things that frills and sparkles and sequins could turn a dog into with a little imagination. Starsky watched dubiously, but Hutch thought it was hilarious, even more so than watching his partner and the dog running happily—joyfully—around the yard playing fetch or chase with a stick, or the squeaky hotdog Starsky had got from the pet store, or jumping through the sprinkler like lunatics.

Ziggy loved Starsky, liked Hutch, but he adored Kelly. Let the little girl do just about anything to him a dog can stand. Even walked the girl home and put himself between her and the street. Hutch thought it coincidence at first, until he caught the dog exhibiting cautious herding behaviors, to keep Kelly and her friend Cecile on the sidewalk as they moved from next door and around the corner to Cecile’s house for lunch and cookies.

“He must be part Shepherd, it would explain all that hair!”

When it came to their little family, pets were only half of the equation. There was Kiko, his wife Roxanne, their two sons and three-month-old grandson Miguel. Molly, her wife Frida, and all the kids in their foster home. Rosie Dobey and her daughter. Cal’s wife and kids, and of course, the various neighbors that had come and gone since they’d bought the Victorian on the corner.

Kelly was the newest and geographically closest. Cecile from down the street a few months older, reminded Hutch of Rosie Dobey with her quick wit and kindness. The girls were best friends, and could just as often be seen in the back yard enjoying iced tea with Hutch and romping with Ziggy, or perched on tiptoes watching Starsky feed his mantids, or tinker with his car.

Cecile’s mother was a school teacher, her two elder sisters in middle school and elementary school respectively, and her father was a real-estate agent who worked from home. He was the same agent who had taken over the territory of the elderly Mr. Robins, who had sold Starsky their house, when Mr. Robins retired with his wife.

Lamar was in his mid-thirties, a tall broad man with dark skin and a bright smile. He doted on his daughters, and came around to drop Cecile off to play when she was allowed, or to pick up Kelly should Hutch and Starsky be unable to watch her for the day. He drove a shiny galaxy blue Dodge Challenger with glossy chrome wheels, and liked to rev his engine when Starsky was working on the Torino. They had a playful kind of rivalry that made Hutch wish he’d remembered to put ear plugs in his pockets and drove Edgewood crazy.

Sometimes he wondered if Starsky weren’t crazy, and Edgewood the only sane one of them. But then the old woman would sneer at them and he’d secretly wish to leave a paper baggie of dog poop on her steps.

“We’re _Eccentrics_, ain’t they what they say about us at the grocery store? You and all your coupons, and me tolerating you?”

Hutch felt his eyes roll back so far into his head he wondered if that red stuff wasn’t what was left of his brain. Fitting it would be the same color as Starsky’s car. He shifted his shoulders against the wicker chair uncomfortably.

“We’re the neighborhood’s eccentric uncles!” Starsky was bending over one of his bonsai trees with tiny little scissors, shaping the little tufts of foliage. His glasses were slipping farther and farther down his nose and Ziggy the Dinosaur was running laps of the back yard with his tongue lolling.

“I’m not eccentric. I don’t keep bugs for pets, or scratch myself on the front lawn at five-am every morning.”

“I don’t scratch myself on the front lawn!” He pointed with his scissors, “And Susanna isn’t a ‘bug’ she’s a Carolina mantis! And you’re the one who brought her here!”

Hutch pretended to ignore him.

“And you are too eccentric! You’re on one of those froufrou diets they’re always talkin’ about on that Doctor OZ all the time.”

“It’s not a froufrou diet! It’s healthy!”

“You’re worse now than you were with your butterfly bones and ant’s whiskers—” He continued mumbling bitterly.

Hutch calmly put down his manuscript; “We’ve been over this… I have—”

“You’ve got the bad guts, I know. Trust me!” He rolled his eyes.

_“Celiac Disease!”_

“Bad. Guts. Don’t matter how you spell it… At least you’re not as gassy now as you were when we were still on the force.”

Hutch saw red again; “Anyway, that is the extent of my health problems. What have you got going for you, huh?”

“Oh, don’t start that again—”

“Cholesterol, blood sugar, your eyes are going, your hearing’s fading, your knees, your back—”

“You want to do this? You really wanna do this?” He poked a finger into Hutch’s side, “What about your gall bladder, huh? We gonna forget about that debacle? Or how about your kidney stones! Or that whistling noise you make when you sleep on your back! And your hip! We can’t forget that! You got an astronaut hip, you _hip-_ocrit!!”

“Fine, _fine!_ We’re evenly deteriorating! Happy?”

“Thank you! I’m not fallin’ apart yet! Still got plenty of good years to come.”

“One forty-five still your goal?”

“One forty-six, just to piss you off.”

Hutch tried to hide his grin.

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End file.
